The Radio Red Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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СКАЧАТЬ Ms. Mbolo—”

      “No, you were saying you thought Kay-Red was a left-wing appellation. It was that too. I was not born at the time. Neither were you, I would think. But the old-timers—they say that when the Cold War broke out, the founders were shocked. They believed in the worldwide struggle against Fascism and imperialism, the United Nations, and so forth. They were appalled by the Berlin airlift, and outraged by the Korean War.”

      Marvia wondered what to do with this. It was all history. It could hardly have any connection with the Bjorner murder—or could it? Sometimes if you let them talk they came around to the point and told you wonderful things. She decided to let Mbolo continue.

      “For the next forty years, KRED opposed the Cold War. It supported the Guzman regime in Guatemala and the Fair Play for Cuba Committee, denounced the Bay of Pigs invasion, the Vietnam War, US intervention in Nicaragua.”

      “But nothing about the Hungarian Revolution, Prague Spring, Poland?” Marvia’s years in Germany flashed past. She hadn’t been a political soldier. She’d joined the military police, won corporal’s stripes, got pregnant, got married, got her discharge, had her baby and divorced her husband. In that order.

      But she’d seen the Berlin Wall, she knew something about conditions in Europe toward the end of the Cold War.

      “They clucked their tongues,” Mbolo said, “and regretted the necessity. But it was Western aggression that forced Stalin and Khrushchev and Brezhnev to do the things they did.”

      “And you were questioned by the Dirgue in Ethiopia?” Marvia prompted.

      “My people were Falasha. Beta Esrael.”

      “Jews?”

      “Most of us are in Israel now, but my family—the Dirgue didn’t like us. We were coffee merchants. In Gonder. The local Party boss decided we were rich Jews, hiding gold in our house. We were arrested, my whole family. I was the only one who survived. I walked all the way from Gonder to Djibouti. I was able to get political asylum and come to America. I studied at the university and—It is strange, is it not? Here I am.”

      “What about KRED?”

      “I took the job because I love radio. I used to listen to it all the time in Gonder. I volunteered here, then I was hired, and now I am station manager. I had to hide how much I hated the Communists, is that not strange? But the Cold War is over now, and I am trying to return KRED to its roots. Three of the founders are dead. The last survivor—we like to have him back for a special observance once a year, but he is nearly ninety now, and probably will be unable to handle it much longer. But if they were alive I would want them to be proud of KRED.”

      “And that’s why you didn’t like Bob Bjorner.”

      For the first time, Sun Mbolo’s face showed anger. “He was the ultimate apologist. For the most vicious of crimes. For everything. For Stalin, for Ceausescu, even Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. Yes, and Mengistu. He tried to justify the Dirgue. He knew I was from Ethiopia but he did not know I am Beta Esrael.”

      Marvia said, “Do you have any idea who would want to kill him?”

      Mbolo shook her head slowly, left and right. “There was disagreement here in the station. Those who wanted to keep the old political line. Keep fighting the Cold War—in the name of Fraternal Socialist solidarity. And those who wanted to return to the founders’ ideal. Keep Radio Educational and Democratic. Those others have no concept of democracy. They think democracy means agreeing with them. Bjorner was one of the worst. Sincere enough, I think, in his own way. But totally convinced that he was objectively and incontrovertibly correct. Ergo, anyone who disagreed with him was wrong. He made many people very angry with him here at KRED but I do not think any of them would kill him.”

      “Someone killed him, Ms. Mbolo.”

      “You are sure of that?”

      Marvia ignored the question. “Where were you when he died?”

      “When did he die?”

      Marvia couldn’t help smiling. She’d been to a strip show in Weisbaden with a gang of her pals. They’d seen a pair of German comics doing classic American burlesque routines complete with baggy pants and heavy accents. Heinrich Schmidt und Otto Umlaut, whatever. “Meine nahm ist Muckin’ Futch,” one of the comedians would say, “Das ist meine nahm und dot’s vot I gedt, Too Muckin’ Futch.”

      This cookie Sun Mbolo was that, too, Marvia decided. She was Too Muckin’ Futch.

      After some more fencing Mbolo was able to account for her afternoon. Marvia would have to collect the statements the uniforms had got from everyone else in the station from the time of Bjorner’s arrival to the time of his death, and do a mix-and-match with them. She’d want a report from Edgar Bisonte’s office in Oakland, and the sooner the better.

      And she’d want to check out Bjorner’s home and family situation.

      “One more thing, Ms. Mbolo.”

      Mbolo looked surprised, as if she’d thought the interview was over and she was mildly annoyed and disappointed to learn that it wasn’t.

      “How did you get the job of station manager? You said you’d been a volunteer here, but had you ever worked elsewhere, in radio?”

      Mbolo was silent.

      “Is that a sore point?” Marvia asked.

      “This was my first broadcast experience. In fact, for the promotion I was jumped over several people who had been here longer than I. Much longer. Naturally, there was a certain amount of resentment.”

      Naturally. “How did that happen?”

      Mbolo steepled her long fingers and gazed into the distance. “The previous manager was under a certain amount of pressure. You know, there was a difficult permit process involved in having this building constructed. The old Oceana/KRED offices up on Spalding Street—do you know them?”

      “I remember passing by.”

      “KRED was in there from the very beginning. The place was poor at best, and as the years passed, it became an utter eyesore. I mean, our programmers would arrange for the presence of guests, world famous authors and musicians as well as scientists and educators, and it was an embarrassment. So KRED and Oceana raised a capital fund. The usual pleas over the air, surely you have heard them, Send us a hundred dollars, send us five dollars, send us anything you can, we need your help.”

      “I’ve heard them many times.”

      “Meanwhile, we had fund-raisers in the field running guilt scenarios on corporate donors and foundations and a few very liberal philanthropists. And of course our dear friends, as we call them, ‘the Feds.’”

      “The Feds?”

      “Quite. We get a lot of money from the government.”

      “But you blast the government every day. At least that’s KRED’s reputation.”

      Mbolo smiled and spread her hands.

      “All right,” Marvia resumed. “Let’s get back to the point. How you got this job.”

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